


Hollows

by aparticularbandit



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/F, and petra gets a mention, because of the opening, but - Freeform, emilio and rafael aren't really in it that long, had this stuck in my head, here have a halloween fic, hope it's cool, oh yeah cancer tw, wanted to do something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16453958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aparticularbandit/pseuds/aparticularbandit





	Hollows

“Lusia, can I have some time alone with my son?”

Her dark eyes startle open, and her hold on Raf’s hand tightens.  She wasn’t asleep, but she might as well have been, with both hands on her brother’s, leaning forward with eyes closed onto his hotel bed.  They’d taken his samples earlier in the day, and she’d stayed with him ever since.  Their father arrived much later, after a huge hotel meeting.  Life goes on.  Even _she_ has work to attend to, although her employers have been much more accommodating.

She scans the room – Petra’s gone, she vaguely remembers hearing that there was something at the hotel she’d needed to address (and Luisa doesn’t hold this against her.  Someone has to do it, and the busyness helps work through the emotions.  Besides, it’s nice to have those moments to herself.  She knows), and Rose is….

She doesn’t know where Rose is.

She doesn’t _care_.

It’s impossible to be in the room and not see the change in her brother.  The chemo treatment has been causing his hair to fall out, so he’s taken to wearing a black beanie over his scalp, ashamed of the way he looks.  But the beanie that had fit perfectly only a few weeks ago seems overlarge now.  The drop in weight has hollowed out his cheeks, and he is pasty white, not the ever-present tan she is used to seeing him with from his near constant time in the sun.

“My brother might be dying, and you want me to leave?”

Now her eyes narrow on their father.  Rafael doesn’t love him; she knows this.  He doesn’t think their father loves _him_ either, thinks that he will only ever be disappointed in him; she knows this, too.  _Raf doesn’t want to be alone with their father_ ; he doesn’t have to say it, but she knows this, as well.  Deciding to care now that he’s suddenly ill is the worst sort of lie.  That’s not how it works, but that’s how it feels.

“My son is dying, and I would like to have a moment alone with him.  I don’t think that’s too much to ask, darling.”

Her hand squeezes her brother’s and he squeezes hers back.  It isn’t as strong as it was when they were kids, when he’d broken a glass vase and hidden behind her back from their father’s rage.  (Emilio was never as mad as Raf believed he would be.  He was only disappointed, and that was harder.  Rage passes.  Disappointment lingers.)  “It’s okay, Lu.  I’m not going to die tonight.”

“I have a medical license, Raf, and that’s not how it works.  You don’t get to pick when you live and when you die, and this could take you when it wants, and I do not want to be _somewhere else_ if—“

And for once in her life, her throat closes up and she can’t speak.  Luisa’s _always_ been able to speak.  It’s her greatest annoyance and her greatest strength all wrapped up into one, and in her grief and fear, it’s suddenly _gone_.  She tries again.  “— _if_ —“  But nothing comes of it.

“I’m not going to die tonight, Lu, and if I do, trust me, you’ll be the first one I come back to haunt.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”  Luisa’s face is suddenly harsh and her voice comes back enough for her to croak out, “I have enough people thinking that I’m a questionable practitioner without me _hallucinating_ the ghost of my dead little—“ and her voice cuts out again.  Besides, he would have far more fun haunting his wife or torturing their father.  Another thing she knows.  Her eyes return to their father.  “How long?”

Emilio doesn’t move, his hands clasped together in his lap, always in control even when it would be better if he let go of an ounce of it.  “I’ll call you.  I just—“

“—need time, I get it.”  She shakes her head, forces herself to swallow, to try and speak again.  “I get it.”  Much quieter.  Luisa’s had more than her fair share of time alone with her brother the past few days.  At first, that was terrifying, not the _being alone with Raf_ part but the _what if something happens?_ part.  The responsibility of being there, alone, if things suddenly turned south.  Being a doctor trained her to deal with other people’s deaths, other people’s grief.  Not her own.  She stands, loosening her grip on her brother’s hand, and gives it a pat, giving him an encouraging glance before saying, just as hushed, “You’ll call me, if—“

She can’t say it.  She won’t.  She _can’t_.

Her father just nods.

* * *

 

Luisa is in her hotel suite at the Marbella, staring down an over large bottle of Sarov vodka, when the knock on her door comes.  She’s spent the last hour trying to convince herself that one drink really _will_ hurt that much and she _doesn’t_ want one (not even one!), but the longer she stares at the bottle the harder it is.  She’d initially bought it to make herself feel better, to have it and know that she was strong enough to _not_ drink any of it, as another sort of pick me up instead of actually drinking, but the longer Rafael is in the hospital and the worse things get, the more of a struggle it is to not drink a sip, to not take _something_ to dull the pain.

“Who is it?”

She has a good idea before there is any response, and she hopes that she is wrong.  (Although whether that’s due to the complications surrounding her relationship with the other woman or her growing desire to drink alone instead of being with someone she _knows_ will talk her out of it is anybody’s guess.)

“It’s Rose.  Can I come in?”

Luisa gives a last, lingering look to the unopened bottle before deciding to leave it on her counter.  She strides across the main room to open the door and holds it like that so Rose can enter, gaze downwards.  No, she doesn’t want to look at her right now.  She doesn’t want to see the woman who chose to marry her father over pursuing what she _knew_ they had (and still have, on the odd occasion when her father is nowhere to be seen and they find their way into each other’s arms.  She loves Rose, but she hates the way it makes her feel afterwards, hates feeling like she is something that can just be picked up and discarded as it suits her stepmother.  It doesn’t matter how much she reminds herself that’s not what it is, how much she lies to herself about what she knows can’t be.  It just makes her want to drink more).

But she doesn’t even have to _see_ her.  Even with her eyes downcast, even with them closed, Luisa can still **smell** her.  It’s intoxicating.  Rose brings with her a unique scent, a mixture of strawberries and the faintest hint of lavender, and as she walks by, it overwhelms her.  She can’t keep looking down as she turns back, letting the door shut softly behind her.  ( _Soft_ , not a slam like other hotel doors when they are released.  Her father made sure of that.  He had _not_ been as careful with making the rooms _soundproof_ , which is why her suite is on the other end of the hotel from his.  It doesn’t always help.)

Rose pauses inside the entryway and nods once, bottom lip tugged between her teeth.  “You’ve been drinking.”

“No, I haven’t.”  Yet.  “I haven’t even opened the bottle.”  _Yet._   “I just.  _have_.  it.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

No.  It isn’t.  It’s not _meant_ to be reassuring.  Luisa can’t even fool herself anymore; she knows the longer this goes on and the longer she has the bottle, the more likely it is that she will, eventually, have a drink.  And when she has one, she’ll have another.  And another.  Maybe she’s staying with Raf so much not because she cares but because she’s avoiding the bottle.  Spend time with him to keep from drinking; drink to keep from feeling the pain of watching him die.

There is no good end to this cycle.

 “My birthday is on Halloween.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, Rose’s voice filling the silence that Luisa’s normally fills, and she hates it, hates that she feels like her entire self is being stripped away again.

“Good.”  Luisa moves around Rose, barely touching the fabric of the other’s white dress, to stand behind her kitchen counter.  “Tell my father.”  She takes the bottle and crouches down, holds the weight of it between her hands like a promise, then puts it away in her cabinet.  “I’m sure he’d _love_ to hear that.”

“He’s a little preoccupied at the moment.”

“I’m sure he is.  We _all_ are.”  Luisa snaps, face flushed with frustration.  “Did he send you here to check up on me?” she asks as she stands, moving about the kitchen just to keep from looking at her, but there’s nothing to _do_ here.  It’s not even a full working kitchen, just cabinets and a fridge and a microwave set up to _look_ like one.  No trying to recreate the meals her mother used to make from threadbare recipes she’d found stashed away in one of her father’s houses – Alegría, the one named for her grandmother, _hers and hers alone_ , the woman whose name meant nothing like what she was like – no pretending she is a better cook than she actually is.  (She’s memorized the recipes, knows them by heart, but that doesn’t mean she can make the bread rise the way her mother had.  There’s something missing.  She just doesn’t know what.)  “Well, you’ve checked,” she says, moving from the kitchen, “you’ve seen the bottle, you can go tell him—“

“I was hoping,” Rose interrupts, and her head is already lowered, as though ashamed of herself for even asking, “that you would go out with me.”  She glances up through her dark lashes; Luisa’s _looking_ now, shocked that she would even suggest such a thing.  “I don’t want to take you away from your brother, but circumstances being what they are—“

Luisa being kicked out by her father so he could have his _alone time_ with Raf.

“—I thought, maybe, you would like some company.”

Luisa pauses, turned away from her again because she doesn’t want to look, and her eyes shut tight.  “I don’t want that sort of company right now.  Not while my brother might be dying, Rose, I’m not looking for comfort, I don’t—“

“That’s not what I meant.”

And Rose’s hand ghosts through her hair just like it always does, and pauses on her face like it always does, and she curves towards it and softens just like _she_ always does and she _refuses_ to open her eyes because she doesn’t want to fall into Rose right now just like she doesn’t want to _drink_ right now but she opens them anyway and her dark eyes find Rose’s bright ones and her heart skips a beat.

“What did you mean?”

* * *

 

Luisa didn’t even known there _were_ independently run haunted houses nearby.  Well, she _knew_ , but she thought they were all shoddy, poor attempts to match what Disney and Universal put on.  It never crossed her mind to go to one; the high production ones were bad enough without the gusto that these put on just to keep up.

And yet.

Rose knocks their bodies together in the line, dressed down from the not as inconspicuous bright white dress (which would likely not have _remained_ white once they made it through whatever is waiting for them up ahead).  She looks almost normal – khaki shorts rolled up to expose her long, white legs; hiking boots, which are absurd on Miami’s beaches but perfect when she’s out of the country; and a plain cream tank top that looks like it can be bought at any supermarket but of much softer fabric.  Her hair curls around her shoulder, an additional contrast on top of the freckles that spatter her arms and back.  Luisa knocks back into her, pulling her mother’s forest green sweater closer around her.  Since she finally grew into it during her last years of her undergrad, she’s worn it for most casual outings.  It calms her.  Grounds her.  Keeps her focused on the present.

The line is full of much younger people: college students with flasks needing a break from their school work or celebrating the end of midterms; high school students finally old enough to take a date to one of these without needing a parent to sign their waivers; a handful of grad. students who have made this a part of their annual Halloween festivities the way students in the Midwest have corn mazes.  There are a couple of thrill-seekers who are much older, and a pool of people scattered through that are closer to her own age – somewhere in their thirties, finally finished with all of their degrees, crushed under the weight of college loans (she is not one of these; her father more than paid for everything she could have needed or even wanted), trying to figure out the adult they’re going to be and still stuck in that halfway transitional period.

“How did you find this place?” Luisa asks, arms crossed and wrapped around herself.  The perimeter is packed with cars, the exterior covered in spray painted figures from classic horror slasher movies (slightly _off_ so as not to be sued by their respective companies), and the grounds full of trees that almost looked real against the dark sky, bare branches ripping into the stars (not that they can see them, with all of the nearby city lights).

“I have my ways.”  Rose knocks against her again, that strong scent of strawberries wafting through the air.

“You know at a place like this, with all the dark and spooky and murder house vibes, that sounds like you’re going to rip me to shreds once we get inside.”  Her brows furrow.  “You’re _not_ planning to kill me, are you?  That kind of ruins the whole _recovering addict looks after her dying brother_ thing I’ve got going on.”

Rose laughs, a bright chortling sound.  “You sound like a bad Hallmark Christmas special.”

“Yeah, well, you’re walking me into a cheap Halloween b movie set, so who’s missing out here?”

“ _Thanksgiving._ ”

They say it in unison, Rose with her eyebrows raised and Luisa with a knowing nod, and they turn to each other after noticing.  Luisa wants to laugh, wants to feel like this is normal, everything in her _screams_ with it, but she holds back, wrapping herself tighter in her sweater.  “Do they even _make_ Thanksgiving movies?”

“I don’t know.  My family was always too busy to watch them.  Dad in the kitchen cooking, little brother scampering around the house and tripping over _everything_.”

Rose doesn’t mention a third person, and someone else might not have noticed it, but Luisa does.  “And your mom?”

“Somewhere else.”

She shuffles her feet, boots clunking together.  Luisa can’t hear the sound over the idle, excited chatter surrounding them, but she knows the movement.  It’s an avoidance.  She knows Rose will change the topic even before the other woman looks up and kisses her cheek.  It’s a kick little peck, over before it’s even begun, and Luisa turns to her, eyes searching hers.  “What was that?”

“A thanks,” Rose says, “for asking.  Your father never asks about my family.”

 _It’s because he doesn’t really care_ , Luisa wants to say but doesn’t.  She knows just as well as Rose does that what her father wants from her isn’t _family_.  It isn’t even really _her_.  Not as a person.  If it was, Rose wouldn’t be with her as often as she is.  That’s not to say he doesn’t care.  He _does_.  Just not in the same way other people might.

“Let’s not talk about him.”

“No.”

Rose takes her hand, interlaces their fingers, and gives a gentle squeeze.  “My mother would have loved you.”

Luisa’s gazes falls back to her shoes, to the fake leaves crunching underfoot, and she shivers, not because it’s cold (it’s Miami and she’s in her mother’s sweater; she’s not _cold_ ), but because she’d expected, even welcomed, the change of topic that never came.  “Can we not talk about family?”

“Of course.”

They stand in the line in silence, other than the spooking _oooo_ s coming from the entrance before them, the speakers around them.  The workers have done a good job of hiding the speakers under branches and behind pumpkins – both jack-o’-lanterns and otherwise – and Luisa doesn’t seek them out.  More often than not, her eyes are drawn to the flickering flames of the carved designs, of the ghosts they cast on the ground in front of them.  The line continues to move forward, snaking around the grounds, and Luisa leans her head on Rose’s shoulder.  She’s never thought of herself as short because she isn’t.  She’s the lower end of average.  But Rose is taller, not enough to be truly _tall_ , but enough that she can just lean against her without having to perch on tiptoes or for the younger woman to hunch down.  It’s comfortable.  Too comfortable, if she’s honest with herself, but when has she ever cared about honesty when she’s with Rose?  She likes the fantasy, the _lie_ of them together.  It’ll hurt when Rose leaves, but until then, she’ll take what she can.

For now, they can pretend to be a couple.  They can pretend that this is an actual date, two women going to a haunted house together because it’s almost Halloween and there’s something _enticing_ about fear and being afraid, about ghouls and ghosts, about running around in costumes and masks and being something you _want_ but cannot be.  Luisa doesn’t want to be Batman.  She just wants to be with Rose, and when they finally reach the entrance, she tugs on her arm.

“I get scared easily, so you have to _protect me_.  Be my knight in shining armor.  Think you can do that?”

And her heart breaks with the smug grin on Rose’s lips and the slight nod of her head before she whispers, “Yes.”

* * *

 

“ _Why_ did you take me here?”

Luisa paces outside the back hallway, where the walls are still painted a rough grey-black and there are still cobwebs draped across the corners, but where the tombstones are blatantly fake and bright lights take away most of the fearful atmosphere.  One arm wraps just under her chest, the other hand near her chin, fingers tapping there before she moves to cup her own cheek, brush her fingers up and through her dark hair.  “Why didn’t you stop me from _punching that ghost_?”

Rose looks ashamed.  “I _thought_ it would be better to be terrified over something that wasn’t real than to worry about something that was.”

_Oh._

Then Rose glances up towards one of the cobwebs in the corner, a sigh that Luisa _knows_ is exasperated breaking through her tight lips, jaw clenching.  “I didn’t think you would actually _attack_ anyone.  And a _ghost_ , Luisa.”  Her arms cross, but her knuckles are white where one hand clenches one arm.  “What did you think you would do to an _actual ghost_?”

“I don’t know!”  She’s still pacing, trying to get all of this wound up tension out of her skin.  “I don’t know, I didn’t think, I just—“

“I know you _just_ —“

“That’s _not_ funny.”

At least Luisa is still a medical doctor.  She’d been able to take care of the scratch her nail carved in his upper cheekbone, even if there wasn’t much she could do for the black eye she’s still sure he’ll have the next day.  Her stomach is still tied in knots.  They’ve already told her she doesn’t have to pay for any damages (and she’s already insisted to pay for any medical bills, if he has them, which he shouldn’t, since she was _there_ ), and mostly they just want her out of their establishment.  Which she _gets_ , but she needs to calm down first.

She could use a drink.  She doesn’t want a drink.  (She really, _really_ does.)

“I didn’t mean to make things worse for you, Luisa.  I hope you understand that.”

There’s a shift in Rose’s tone, and she catches it, just barely.  Too many times the other woman has spoken in double meanings, playing with her words the way a cat might play with its meal before finally eating it.  Sure, she’s talking about _now_ , but--

It’s the closest thing to an apology she’s ever gotten from her.  She hadn’t asked for one, hadn’t even expected one.  Not the first time, when she realized Rose was dating her father (because they were a _mistake_ , a _one-time thing_ , a desperate last clutch for time with a woman before tying herself down to an man over twice her age); not the second time, when her father abruptly left her on their anniversary because _something came up_ (because Luisa knew what it meant to be left behind by Emilio on a day that was supposed to be important and she wanted to protect her from some of that); not the countless times after (because if she started to expect an apology now, she’d start believing that she was right, she’d want one for every time before, and she can’t, she _won’t_ ask for that).

She won’t now.

Luisa slips her hand into one of hers, interlacing her shorter fingers with Rose’s longer ones again, and she pulls her into the nearby bathroom, locking the door behind them.  She gazes across Rose’s face, the sharp angles of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones, looking for the faintest hint of surprise, and finds none.  Instead, she is given the slight upturn of her lips, the _pleased_ smile she should have known to expect.

“I thought your _girlfriend_ liked sex in bathrooms?”

“She does,” Luisa says.  Her gaze moves to Rose’s lips, and while she would love to stopper them with her own, she chooses to do otherwise, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Rose’s bare neck.  How much more entertaining might it be to get her to scream where the sounds would mingle with those of the frightened customers outside?  (Would they be caught?)

“I would think,” Rose brushes a hand through her hair, nails scratching faintly along the back of her neck, “you would be tired of that by now.”  But she wraps one long leg around her, hitching it at her hip, an encouragement for her to continue.

Luisa uses the opportunity to draw closer to her but pauses just long enough to glance up, to meet Rose’s blue eyes.  “What are you suggesting?”

“Somewhere much more comfortable.”  Her eyebrows raise, testing.

Luisa runs one hand along Rose’s exposed thigh, considering.  Her skin is so _soft_.  “Why not both?”

Rose grins, and she traces a finger around Luisa’s chin, lifting it so that she can press a gentle, unchaste kiss to her lips.  “I can do both.”

* * *

 

Luisa wakes alone in her hotel room the next morning.  She feels sore, hollow, the only indication that Rose has been there at all, other than the marks she’s left on her collarbones, her hips, her inner thighs.  It’s like she doesn’t want her to forget, as if she ever _could_.  As she sits up in bed, Rose’s scent lifts from the pillow next to her, and she thinks that by the end of this she will _hate_ strawberries, if she doesn’t already.  She can’t sit here right now, can’t have a moment like that and be left with nothing.

She pads barefoot, naked, into her kitchen and crouches down to her cabinet.  Yesterday she might have had the strength not to drink, but today she feels weak and alone.  She wants the warmth pouring down her throat the way she’d wanted Rose’s hands pulling on her hair, the warmth of _her_ wet on her tongue.  Alcohol is a purifier, a cleanser.  Maybe it’ll burn the taste of her out.

But no.  Rose has done her one more disservice.

The bottle has been ghosted away, leaving only its withered emptiness in its place.


End file.
